


Letting Out The Hems

by puella_nerdii



Category: Suikoden I
Genre: (or not), Gen, Growing Up, Immortality, Missing Scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-18
Updated: 2015-10-18
Packaged: 2018-04-26 21:41:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,949
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5021506
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/puella_nerdii/pseuds/puella_nerdii
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A lot has changed since Cleo fled from Gregminster.</p><p>The Young Master hasn't.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Letting Out The Hems

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AceQueenKing](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AceQueenKing/gifts).



> A Yuletide 2014 NYR for AceQueenKing. I just did a massive Suikoden replay, and your prompt really fired up my imagination! 
> 
> Takes place after Teo's death and before Lorimar.

There was always going to be a day when the Young Master would sit at the table of a war council, and everyone would turn to him and wait for his decision. The day wasn't supposed to come so soon, and Master Teo was supposed to be here, but it's come all the same. Cleo's noticed the shift in the meetings with Mathiu: he looks for the Young Master's understanding when he explains his strategies now, not only his approval. Lepant and Kwanda and even Milich don't just accept his judgment, they _want_ it. The Young Master still doesn't speak much at the meetings, but his questions are more pointed now, his affirmations surer. When he sketches out invasion routes and troop movements on the map, his hand doesn't waver.

Gremio would be so proud to see him. So would General Teo. It hurts, more than anything else, that they can't. The Young Master doesn't talk about either of them much—or if he does, he's found people other than Pahn and Cleo to confide in. She isn't sure he has, though. He speaks less and less these days. _Yes_ and _no_ have been replaced almost entirely with nods and shakes of his head. If he has a question, he looks to the sky, tilts the corner of his mouth down. 

Cleo remembers when he tagged along at her heels, chattering about his day, peppering her with questions: _When's Father coming home? Why is General Shulen here? Why can't I touch the fire crystal?_ He hasn't done that in so long. He might never do that again. That's a different kind of hurt, a dull ache that blossoms somewhere behind her ribs.

She tries not to dwell on it. Dwelling's never suited her, and there's usually enough around the castle to occupy her time. There's mastering her Rune, and wrangling room assignments and all the complaints that go with them, and clearing more and more of the debris from the castle. They've just cleared out a space suitable for the Young Master's new quarters, in fact, and she and Pahn are moving his things in today.

It would be going much faster if Pahn's memory stretched past the last time he ate, though.

"The wardrobe goes on the _right_ , Pahn!"

Pahn pauses midway in easing the wardrobe off the trolley. "What?"

"We can't put the wardrobe on the left because the bed's going there, Pahn, we went over this five minutes ago."

Pahn hasn't bothered to shove the wardrobe fully onto the trolley, and it's listing dangerously to the side. "You just said the bed was going on the left. You didn't say anything about the wardrobe."

"It's basic logic—look out!"

Thankfully, Pahn catches the wardrobe before it crashes to the ground, but the drawer on the bottom flies out, and the Young Master's clothes spill onto the floor. Sighing, Cleo grabs the other side and helps Pahn haul the wardrobe upright again. So much for finishing up this afternoon. At this rate, moving the Young Master in will take another week.

"Help me pick up," she says, and starts gathering up the Young Master's clothes.

"Feels like Gremio's job," Pahn says.

She pauses in the middle of folding one of the Young Master's shirts. She's smiling, but it's more an echo of a past smile than a real one. "You're right. It does."

Pahn kneels next to her, pokes at a nearby heap of clothes. He doesn't quite meet her eyes. "A lot's changed."

"I know." 

"Does it bother you?"

She shakes her head, reaches for a pair of the Young Master's trousers, and starts folding them, too. "I don't think that's the right word for it. We knew he'd grow up someday. Part of that is outgrowing us."

For once, Pahn seems to take a moment to think, then nods to himself. "He's doing well, though. He's growing into a fine man."

Cleo's smile feels more substantial now. "He is."

Pahn pushes another stack of laundry her way. 

"You can fold too, you know," she says.

He coughs, grabs the first shirt off the pile and starts shaking the wrinkles out. "You think he'll be as tall as the General?"

"He might be. We've had to let out his hems, haven't we?" Wait, Pahn wouldn't know the answer to that. Well, she has a pair of his trousers; it's easy enough to check. 

Actually, it doesn't look like they've been let out at all. She frowns. That's strange. She could have sworn…surely he's grown over the past year, hasn't he? He seems taller. It can't only be the way he's carrying himself. Can it?

"What's wrong?" Pahn asks.

"Pahn, _has_ the Young Master gotten taller?"

Pahn's frowning now, too. "Hasn't he?"

"I'm not sure," she says. "He hasn't outgrown any of his clothes." She tries to remember how he measured up the last time she stood next to him. He came up to the middle of her forehead. That's about where he was a year ago.

"Maybe he's getting a late start," Pahn says.

"Maybe." It's still settling uneasily at the back of her mind, though, like a joint of wood that isn't quite square. "I'm just thinking—for everything else that's different, he doesn't _look_ very different, does he?"

Pahn scratches behind his ear. "He's stronger. Hits like a plains boar these days."

"Yes, but that's not what I meant. That's all practice and training. Your body's supposed to change in lots of ways when you get older."

Pahn's cheeks tinge red. "Uh."

Cleo throws a ball of socks at him. "That's not what I meant. I meant—your face gets longer. When you're a man, your jaw gets thicker. Your chest and shoulders get broader. Your voice drops. You grow hair."

"Some people don't grow much," Pahn says. 

"Fine, but think about how much you changed when you were his age, and how quickly."

"I guess you're right," he says, but doesn't look happy about it. His frown mirrors hers. "The Young Master looks different, but not—"

"—older," she finishes. Something tight and uneasy curls in her stomach. "Pahn, I don't think he's gotten any older."

Pahn shakes his head. "Can't be. That's not possible."

"I know. It shouldn't be. But there's something I read once, I'm sure of it—" She closes her eyes, rifles through her memory. She came across it in a history book, she thinks. An old one, about the founding of the world. "Wait, no, it isn't just something I read. Don't you remember what Ted told us?"

At that, Pahn lowers his eyes and stares intently at the corner of the room. That's right, he'd left by then to fetch the imperial guards. She inches closer, rests her hand on his knee. There's no point in berating him for what he did. He meant to atone for that choice with his life. She's glad he didn't.

"Ted was alive for three hundred years," she says. "He didn't tell us how old he was when he got the Soul Eater, but either way, he didn't look any older than the Young Master."

Under her hand, Pahn's leg trembles. His face doesn't show much, but from the twitch in his cheek, Cleo guesses he's trying hard to keep it that way. "That can't be true."

"It's the power of the Rune. It must be."

"But then—" Pahn begins, then trails off. "Then he won't get older? And he won't die?"

The tight feeling in her stomach spreads, curls around her lungs and ribs and throat. "I think so."

There are still clothes strewn over the floor. Neither of them moves to pick the rest up. Even when he wears through these, she thinks, the tailors won't need to take his measurements again. She's not sure why that thought's making her eyes sting so much. 

***

They do finish setting up the Young Master's new room, somehow. Pahn moves the bed in before he sets down the rug, and Cleo doesn't notice the mistake until they've half unrolled it. She restocks his bookshelves; they're full of geography and military strategy now, not adventure stories. Pahn drops an atlas on her foot, but she doesn't have the heart to yell at him.

The Young Master comes back to the castle just after sundown. His face is pale, and shadows stretch under his eyes, but his cheeks haven't fully lost their boyish roundness. She wonders why it's taken her so long to notice that. The Young Master greets them all with nods and heads straight to his room. He only pauses to push his bandana back and scratch his fingers through his hairline. Even his hair hasn’t grown much longer.

Cleo waits half an hour or so before knocking on his door. The Young Master's never been the type to head straight to bed. He used to ask her and Gremio to read one more story, fetch one more glass of water, sing one more song. If she listens, she can hear the light tread of his footsteps now, wandering back and forth along the stone.

He opens the door for her, and she steps in. Yes, she was right, his eyes still aren't quite on the level with hers. 

"How do you like your new room?" she asks.

He smiles. It's a tired smile, worn at the edges, but honest.

"I'm glad. Pahn almost broke the wardrobe, you know. That man…" She sighs. "I'm sorry. I didn't come here for small talk."

He waits, silent. He doesn't even ask what she wants to talk about. Cleo twists her fingers together. Knowing the answer makes all this harder to talk about.

"You've changed so much since the night we left Gregminster," she says. "And all of us—Pahn and I are so proud of everything you've done. And it's been _you_ , for a long time. Not just Mathiu or Viktor or Humphrey or Lepant. You've created this castle, this army. We've always believed in you, but now so many other people do, too." She swallows, steeling herself. "But something else happened that night, didn't it?"

The Young Master's throat moves soundlessly. She wouldn't have noticed if she weren't accustomed to watching him.

"When Ted passed the Soul Eater to you, you stopped aging, didn't you?" Her tongue is like lead, sour and heavy in her mouth. "You won't get older. You—won't die."

There's nothing between them but silence, thick and almost choking. The Young Master's gaze doesn't break from hers, but there's some shadow shifting behind his eyes. 

"You don't have to tell me yes or no if you don't want to," she continues. "I think I know. I'm just—" Words fail her entirely. She shakes her head instead. "I wish there was something I could do."

"It's not your fault," the Young Master says. His voice really isn't any deeper than it was a year ago. Hoarser, yes, like he's fallen out of the habit of using it. But not deeper. "I made the choice."

Instinct makes Cleo reach out and hold him tight. It doesn't take long for the Young Master to hold her back. There's so much tension in his arms. "I don't want you to be alone," she tells him. She wants to promise that she'll never leave, that he'll always have her by his side. But what do _never_ and _always_ mean when you're reckoning time in centuries? What promises can she hold herself to?

"I'm not," he says. "Not yet."

"Don't be," she says. "Even if it isn't me or Pahn, or Viktor, or Mathiu, or anyone else here with us right now—please don't be alone."


End file.
